by Alan Elsner
“Thanks for calling, Mark,” Jerrold said in a tired voice.
“What's up?”
“Mark, there's no easy way to tell you this. Jennifer was killed last Thursday.”
“What?”
“She died last Thursday. My sister is gone.” He swallowed a sob.
“Last Thursday? That can't be right. I saw her last Thursday. She came by my apartment to pick up some CDs.”
“I'm afraid it is true.” He sighed.
“But she was here, standing right here in my living room. She only stayed a couple of minutes, but she seemed perfectly fine.”
“She must have been on her way home from your place when it happened.”
“I can't believe you're telling me this. What happened?”
“She fell onto the Metro tracks just as a train was approaching.”
“She fell?”
“She was apparently standing very close to the platform. She must have slipped or lost her balance.”
I closed my eyes. This couldn't be happening. Tears welled up in my eyes and overflowed. Suddenly I was sobbing. At the other end of the line, Jerrold was keening along with me. Then I had an even more appalling thought. “Jerrold, she wasn't pushed, was she?”
“That's what we wanted to know, but nobody saw anything.”
His answer calmed me down a little. “Oh, my God, Jerrold, I'm so sorry. You must be devastated. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
“Thanks for offering, Mark, but I don't think so.”
“When's the funeral? I'd like to come.”
“We're burying her tomorrow out here in Palo Alto.”
“I'll catch the first plane I can.”
“Mark, I don't think that's such a good idea. Her fiancé, Jeff, is here. He's pretty broken up, as you can imagine. I think it would be better if you didn't come. After all, you two weren't really in each other's lives anymore. Perhaps sometime in the future, in a month or two, we'll have a memorial service for all her friends in D. C., and you could come to that.”
“Of course. I'm so sorry for your loss. Jennifer was such a beautiful person. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it.”
“Neither can we. Be well, Mark. I know at one time you two were close. I hope you'll remember her fondly.” He choked up, and I felt myself doing the same.
The rest of the day passed in a fog. The next evening was the first night of Hanukkah. I lit two candles, reciting the blessings alone, thanking God for sustaining us in life and bringing us to this day. The blessing had suddenly acquired a new meaning. Life was so fleeting, so ephemeral. As the psalmist wrote, “As for mortals, their days are like grass. They flourish like a flower of the field, for the wind passes over it, and it is gone.”
I tried to recall how Hanukkah was when I was a kid, my father chanting the blessing, my mother coming out from the kitchen spattered with flour from frying the latkes, the potato pancakes. It used to upset me how messy she looked, but I loved the smell of hot oil that suffused the whole house. Suddenly, I missed her desperately. The room I was standing in, my entire home, was spotlessly clean, but it was as empty as my life. The best way to honor Jennifer, I decided, was to grasp hold of life and live it more fully for as long as possible. I resolved to invite Lynn to help me light the candles at least once before the festival ended.
That night, I dreamed I was sitting on a workbench with two piano keyboards on either side of me. I was playing one with each hand, better than I had ever played before. My right hand swept up and down the keys in dazzling glissandi. My left kept a steady umpa-pa beat, which gradually transformed into the sound of a telephone ringing. Still three-quarters asleep, I snaked my hand out, groping for the receiver. “Who is it?” I muttered, eyes closed.
“Have you seen today's Post yet?” It was Rosen.
“What's happened?” I croaked, feeling for my glasses. My hand swept over the bedside table, accidentally knocking them off. “Shit!”
“What's the matter?”
“My glasses fell. Hold on.” I scrabbled on my hands and knees until I felt the metal frame, put them on, and the world came back in focus. It suddenly hit me that today they were burying Jennifer, putting her broken body into the cold ground.
“This had better be good. I've had it with bad news. What time is it, anyway?”
“Almost seven. You're not still in bed, surely?”
“On a Sunday morning? Why on earth would I be in bed?”
“I never took you for a late sleeper.”
“Only once a year. Today was going to be the day. What did I miss that couldn't wait?”
“Take a look at the Style section and call me back when you've read it.”
Before I could go downstairs to get the paper, the phone rang again. It was Lynn. “Have you seen it?—our Trout guy's in the Post!” she said breathlessly. My heart jumped at the sound of her voice. “I didn't wake you, did I?” she asked.
“No, Rosen just called and did that. What's it about?”
“He's won a major prize. Something called the McCready Award.”
“Is that all?”
“I thought it was pretty interesting. I'm sorry I called so early.”
“No, it's okay.” Then, before I could think about hesitating, I blurted out, “Lynn, can you come and light Hanukkah candles with me tonight?” I felt as though I were sixteen again, asking my first girlfriend on our first date.
“Not tonight,” she said calmly, as if she were expecting this. “I'm doing a shift at a soup kitchen in D. C. My friends and I do it every week. I could come next Saturday, the eighth night. We'll light them all, sing the dumb song about the dreidel, the whole bit.”
“Great,” I said. “I'll make the latkes.”
“Cool.”
“It's a date, then. Oh, and did you get Eric's memo about the hate mail we've been getting?”
“I saw it, but I didn't take it too seriously. I know you guys get hate mail all the time. It goes with the territory, doesn't it?”
“This time it might be a bit different. One of these kooks took the trouble to find out where I live and what I drive and left a note under my windshield. And a close friend of mine died last week. She fell under a Metro train.”
“Mark, that's awful. I read about that poor woman in the paper. I had no idea she was a friend of yours.”
“We had been close once. Anyway, the point is, I want you to take seriously any threats you might get and keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Don't walk around on your own late at night.”
“Right, boss.”
The line beeped, telling me there was another call waiting. It was George. Apparently everyone in Washington but me had seen the Post, which was reporting that Delatrucha was one of six winners of the prestigious McCready Prize, awarded annually for lifetime achievements in the arts. In the middle of the front page were photos of the six honorees: two elder statesmen of the theater, a feminist author, a little-known sculptor, a well-loved poet, and Delatrucha, his beard bushier than ever. I got the coffee going and sat down at the kitchen table to read the article.
Roberto Delatrucha is honored for his honest, unflinching interpretations of classical songs. Delatrucha, a native of Argentina who came to the United States 42 years ago, said he was overwhelmed. “Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined such an honor,” he said.
The prizes will be awarded at a special ceremony at the Kennedy Center in the presence of the president of the United States on February 20 and broadcast on public television. Admirers of Delatrucha can catch the singer in a rare appearance next week when he gives a master class at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.
When I called back, Eric was bubbling with excitement. “This is big,” he said. He was already envisaging the publicity potential of unmasking a major new catch. He adopted a tone of righteous indignation. “Whatever happens, I'm not going to let the president of the United States award a prize to a Nazi. Not on my watch. We must defend the ho
nor of the presidency,” he intoned in his best imitation of Winston Churchill.
“We don't know he's a Nazi,” I said. “We hardly know anything about him at all except that he's an exceptional singer.”
“Mark, we have seven weeks to find out the truth before the ceremony. We need to get moving right now. What do you know about him so far?”
“Not much. His previous name was Schnellinger, and he came here from Argentina in the early fifties. That's about it. We've put in requests to the Berlin Document Center, but it's going to take time to get answers.”
“We don't have time anymore. You'll have to go over there yourself. How quickly can you leave?”
“Whoa, slow down.” Was John Howard right? Was Eric coming unglued in his zeal for publicity?
“What do you mean, ‘slow down’?” he asked. “We need to go full speed ahead.”
“Eric, it's almost Christmas Eve. You'll get nothing done in Germany until after New Year's Day. I'm snowed under with work. The Bruteitis case is still up in the air, and Janet will be back from Lithuania soon. We've got a major appeal coming up, and the new Congress is coming in, plus there's the budget to complete. My entire week is meetings. We're still checking sources on Delatrucha. So far, there's really nothing to go on.”
“Okay, I suppose we can wait a few days,” he said reluctantly. “But from now on, Mark, this is your top priority, the first thing you do in the morning, last thing before you leave. And I want to be briefed on this every couple of days.”
“We should bring Janet in as soon as she gets back.”
“I'll consider it.”
“Speaking of priorities, what about that meeting with the FBI to talk about my personal security?” I asked him.
“You haven't received any more threats, have you?”
“No, just the one I showed you.” I didn't mention Jennifer's death or my suspicion that someone had followed me the other night.
“We'll do it after New Year's. Everyone's busy right now,” he said.
The next day, Detective Novak left a message on my voice mail, saying tests showed no match between the note found in Sophie Reiner's pocket and the one on my car. Different paper, different pen, different handwriting.
Twice during the week, I was invited by the families of synagogue congregants to light candles. Both times there was a single girl there, dangled before me like bait. But now, with my date with Lynn approaching, I wasn't biting.
Christmas Day passed slowly. I said my prayers at home and went for an early-morning run in Rock Creek Park. It was so bitterly cold that even the most fanatical neo-Nazi wouldn't want to be out. The sky was gray with impending snow, and almost no one was out. I warmed up after the first couple of miles and started to enjoy the solitude. My thoughts kept jumping from Delatrucha to Lynn and back again. I had that song on my brain—“In and out of the grove, let one song echo today; the beloved miller girl is mine. Mine!” If only.
I spent the afternoon at the office, reviewing everything there was on the Delatrucha case. Sophie Reiner kept coming to mind. What had brought her to America? If I closed my eyes, I could almost see her sitting in front of me, brushing her scraggly hair from her forehead. There was something nagging at me, some connection I was missing, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
I passed the evening camped in front of the TV, watching a video and eating chocolate-covered macadamia nuts at 96 fattening calories apiece. Each one was a bitter personal defeat. So far, the macadamias were up five to nothing. The phone rang.
“I was thinking about you,” Lynn said. My heart soared.
“I was thinking about you, too. Where are you?”
“Philadelphia, with my parents. So boring.”
“I could drive up tomorrow and bring you home,” I said, thinking of her joyous grin and bouncing curls.
“I'll be back in D. C. in a couple of days. And we have our date on Saturday.” Aha! She called it a date.
“Saturday might as well be next October, the days will pass so slowly.”
“I never pegged you as such a romantic. How sweet.”
“You caught me at an unguarded moment,” I said gruffly. “Usually, I behave like a seventy-year-old, as I believe someone once told me.”
“Anyway, I'll see you in the office on Thursday,” she continued, ignoring my jibe.
Where I could look but not touch, I thought sourly.
Just before midnight, as I was about to go to bed, the phone rang again. Silence on the line. For a moment I thought nobody was there; then I heard the breathing.
“Who's there? Who the fuck are you?” I hissed. Still silence. I slammed down the receiver. These people wanted to intimidate me. The horrible thing was, they were succeeding. I was almost completely defenseless if someone really wanted to do me in. If someone came at me with a knife or a gun, what was I supposed to do? Make like Jiminy Cricket and give a little whistle?
Next morning, I phoned the police and asked them to page Novak.
“Working the day after Christmas, Professor?”
“Putting your tax dollars to work,” I said. “I notice you're working, too.”
“Not by choice.”
“I received an anonymous phone call last night.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Just heavy breathing.”
“Not much we can do about that. I'd get your number changed, or delist it.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I don't want to kowtow to a bunch of thugs.”
“Anything else?”
“Where in Florida did Sophie Reiner go?” I asked.
“Orlando. Why?”
“Did she rent a car?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Delatrucha, the singer whose CD was in her room, teaches music in Gainesville at the University of Florida. She may have gone to visit him. It's an easy drive from Orlando on 75. I've done it myself.”
Novak paused. “We don't think this singer guy has anything to do with it. We're pursuing a new lead.”
“So what was Sophie doing in Florida? And why did she also go to Boston, where his daughter lives? Another coincidence?”
“We don't think that's why she was killed. Listen, Prof, I can't tell you any more right now. I've already said too much. If any of this shows up in the media…”
“Don't worry, it won't. But I don't think you should dismiss the Delatrucha angle so quickly.”
“Professor, do I tell you how to do your job?”
“No,” I admitted.
“So don't tell me how to do mine. Hopefully we'll have something to announce pretty soon.”
Saturday went by even more slowly than usual. At shul, I couldn't concentrate on my prayers. I was waiting for the evening to come. When the buzzer finally sounded and I opened the door, the sight of her in a chunky woolen cardigan caught my breath. The sweater was three sizes too large, but she still looked incredible. I stood there trying to think of something to say before speechlessly ushering her into the apartment.
“This is the first time I've seen you not wearing a suit and a white shirt,” she said. I was wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt. “You look human.”
I made havdalah and was delighted to see Lynn knew how to sing the blessings. “Learned them at Jewish summer camp,” she told me after she plunged the multibraided candle into the wine to extinguish the light of Shabbat and begin the new week.
I switched some lights on, and she wandered around the apartment. “Have you read all these books?” she asked, indicating my shelves. “They all look so dry.”
“They're not all as dry as they seem,” I said, pulling down a translation of the Song of Songs. I read from the first page:
Kiss me, make me drunk with your kisses.
Your sweet loving
Is better than wine.
“That's hot,” she said, looking at me. I wanted to kiss her. Like a coward, I held back.
We cooked the latkes together, grating the potatoes by hand, then deep-fryin
g them until they were brown and crispy.
“What do you like to eat these with?” I asked her.
“Applesauce and yogurt, like everyone else.”
“Actually, people eat them lots of different ways, depending on where their families came from.”
“Really?”
“Some people like them with salt. That's the Lithuanian way. In my father's family, which came from Galicia in southern Poland, they'd always sprinkle them with sugar. Actually, we Galicianers sprinkle pretty much everything with sugar.”
“Latkes with sugar? Yuck!”
“That's what my mother said. Her family were Litvaks.”
Before eating the latkes, we lit the candles and sang “Rock of Ages,” and the dreidel song in both Hebrew and English, and the one about the great miracle that happened in days of old. Lynn suggested we sing the song about a hero arising in every generation to redeem the people. She had a sweet soprano that soared effortlessly over my tuneless tenor.
It wasn't that difficult to imagine doing this again next year. I felt so much at ease. I didn't have to pretend, I could be myself. I could tell her anything—almost everything—and it would be okay.
“So what kind of a Jew are you?” Lynn asked.
“Modern Orthodox. I live in the modern world and accept everything about it, or almost everything, but I try to live my life according to the commandments.”
“What about the role of women?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you consider women equal to men?”
“Absolutely.”
“Would you count a woman to make a minyan?”
The conversation had suddenly taken a very serious turn.
“In my shul, they don't count women in the minyan, and women are not allowed to chant the Torah. I've been going there a long time, and I feel comfortable there. Would I personally count a woman in the minyan? Yes. Would I worship in a place where women were called up to the Torah? Yes. Would I allow a woman to feed me a ham sandwich on Shabbat? No.”
She leaned forward and touched my kippah. “What about this? I've heard the kind of yarmulke people wear has political significance.”
